


Outside?!

by treefrogie84



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 04:35:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13990584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treefrogie84/pseuds/treefrogie84
Summary: As long as Rufus and Bobby get back to the motel in time, everything will be under control.





	Outside?!

**Author's Note:**

> Initial credit for this belongs to my roommate, who thought it should be Wayward Sisters. It didn't work the Claire and Kaia, but it works just fine with Bobby and Rufus.

Bobby unloads a shotgun into the ghoul’s face, jumping to the side as it barrels past him down the short set of stairs.

There’s a matching blast from behind him, a wet thunk as the ghoul rolls off the boardwalk and onto the gravel path. Playing his flashlight over it, the ghoul is missing most of the back of its head. He doesn’t flip it over, doesn’t need to see yet another stolen face of a college kid, just brings his machete down to separate the head from the body.

“Get a move on!” Rufus demands, yanking Bobby’s attention back to the boardwalk.

They rush along the wooden path towards the sinkhole and cave, up and down short staircases that follow the terrain. The cave is nearly half a mile away from the trailhead, and even if it’s along a well maintained trail, there’s a chance this is going to take too long.

Bobby chances a look at his watch and winces before pushing more shells into his shotgun and following Rufus down the wooden steps in front of them. It’s definitely going to take too long.

Their footsteps echo oddly against the walls of the sinkhole when they reach it, nearly sheer rock wall on one side and a steep hill on the other, overgrown with bushes and trees. The cave isn’t far beneath ground level-- maybe twenty feet--, but it’s deep enough that between one step and the next, they can feel the difference between the surface air and the air from the cave (the air from the cave is actually warmer, because it’s December and this hunt has been a mess from the beginning).

“This is your fault,” Rufus calls from behind him on the stairs. “Who hunts things that live in caves? No one!”

“You miserable old coot, _wendigos_ live in caves. So, yeah, folks do. Now shut up,” Bobby snarls quietly.

“It’s already five thirty, we should have waited.”

A shape moves in the gloom ahead, scrabbling up the rock scree across from them. Before Bobby can get his gun up to his shoulder, a shot rings out from behind him, knocking the creature of its feet.

Bounding down the stairs, Bobby hits the final landing at a run and jumps the handrail on the far side, landing in the gravel and leaves that cover this side of the the hill. Flipping the ghoul over, he stares down at the pimply face before pulling his machete off his belt. Even knowing that the ghoul has been dragging folks from the parking lot of the local diner and into the cemetery to snack on at leisure doesn’t help. It takes more effort than it should to pull his machete off his belt and to finish the job.

“Five forty-five,” Rufus says, shining his flashlight into the cave mouth. “And we still have the hike back to the truck.”

“I know,” Bobby snaps, wiping the machete on the damp leaves. “But we’re finishing this thing. There’s at least two more in there,” he gestures with his flashlight. “Hopefully, they’ve not gone too deep.”

Rufus ostentatiously reaches over to knock on the wooden handrail, staring at Bobby the entire time. “And if they _have_ gone deep?”

Bobby huffs, drops his shotgun next to one of the posts, “Missouri caves. There’s seven _known_ miles of cave in here.”

“Crap.” A beat, then “If I miss it, I’m gonna murder you.”

“Oh, fuck you. And lose your gun, dumbass, I don’t need you bringing the whole cave down on us.”

Rufus grumbles, but sets down his shotgun and pulls his machete from its sheath before pulling a headlamp from his jacket pocket. “What? I want both hands free. And it’s five fifty.” He tosses a spare to Bobby before pulling it on his head.

“Will you _shut up_ already about the time?” Bobby rolls his eyes and steps forward into the cave.

Into the stream of freezing cold water, which immediately soaks his jeans. It’s only about ankle deep, here, but his jeans soak it up like a sponge.

Hissing at the cold, he ducks under the overhang and leads the way deeper into the cave.

As far as caves go, it’s not terribly impressive for the first twenty feet or so-- gravel and dirt deposited by the stream, the limestone worn smooth by water and generations of college students.

Bobby follows the stream as it digs deeper into the rock, his light flashing off the damp walls. It’s impossible to move silently, the splashes echoing around off the walls, almost dizzying. Once the water is knee high, there’s enough of a ledge on either side to get out of the water.

The second room is filled with mud, silt piled up however the water pushed it, where it will stay until the next time a storm washes it further into the cave. There’s fewer signs of humans here, the slowly deepening water enough to keep half drunk college kids back where they don’t need flashlights.

“Six ten.”

Rolling his eyes, Bobby turns around to check behind them, getting blinded by Rufus’s headlamp in the process. Blinking away the afterimages, he turns back towards the path.

He doesn’t see the hand snake out of the water and grab his ankle, but he feels it when it trips him. He barely gets his hands down before he faceplants into the mud. Rolling over, he jerks his machete from under him.

The ghoul is on top of him before he can get further than that. Too close to use his machete. Bobby punches the ghoul in the ribs before bringing his knee up sharply.

It recoils, but not enough. Wrapping its hands around Bobby’s neck, it starts to squeeze. It doesn’t have a very good grip, hands slick with mud and water, but it doesn’t need it-- it has both strength and gravity on its side.

Fingers scrabbling, Bobby gets a handhold on the bank of the stream and heaves them both into the water.

The water isn’t deep-- just barely above the knee-- but it’s enough to shock the ghoul off him. Scrambling, Bobby slices the air in front of him. The first blow is blocked by the ghoul’s arm, but Bobby manages a second swing before it can recover, taking the head off.

The body drops into the stream.

“Rufus! Back!” Bobby yells, lurching forward over the body in front of him in the narrow channel. His knees crack against the stone, but he manages to lodge his machete in the second ghoul’s knee.

Rufus sucks in a breath before swinging his machete like a baseball bat. The head bounces slightly when it hits the ground before rolling into the water. Wiping his face, Rufus glances at his watch and swears. “Six thirty. No time for clean up. Let’s go.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bobby asks Rufus’s back. “No time for clean up? The first fucking thing you ever taught me…”

“Yeah, yeah, jackass, I know.” Rufus waves a hand, but doesn’t turn around, jumping into the stream and wading back towards the entrance. “I’ve got other things to do. Now get a move on, or I _will_ leave your ass here.”

Jogging in wet jeans is one of Bobby’s least favorite things. Rufus isn’t jogging-- he’s just short of sprinting-- and it’s completely dark. To make it worse, it’d been chilly with the sun up, but still reasonable for December. Now that the sun’s well below the horizon and the temperature is falling fast. If they weren’t moving, Bobby’d probably be worrying about hypothermia.

Instead, he’s got a nasty rash forming on the inside of his thigh where his jeans rub.

“Six thirty-eight,” Rufus heaves out while unlocking the truck doors. He barely waits for Bobby to climb in before he’s peeling out of the parking lot and heading towards the highway and town.

They only catch one red light, somehow, and skid to a stop outside their motel room at six fifty-seven. Rufus doesn’t even bother to park correctly, leaving the keys in the ignition and diving out.

Rolling his eyes, Bobby slides across the bench seat and moves the truck so it’s between the lines.

All this for a stupid tv show.

Rufus is riveted to the screen, watching the opening credits of his story, heartwarming scenes flashing up on the screen of a teenager and her mom and their town full of weirdos.

 

_If you're out on the road_

_Feelin' lonely and so cold_

_All you have to do is call my name_

_And I'll be there_

_On the next train_

 

Rufus hasn’t even pulled his muddy boots off, still wet from mid-thigh down, but there’s no chance that he’ll move for the next hour.

Leaning against the door, Bobby rolls his eyes, “Happy now, idjit?” He watches as the daughter and mom argue about going to a dance while he shucks his boots and shirts before ducking into the shower to warm up and wash the rest of the mud off.

The water runs cold before Bobby’s warmed through, but that’s what happens in cheap no-tell motels. Pulling on a clean pair of jeans and sweatshirt, he climbs under the covers of his bed and reaches into his bag for the novel he’s reading.

After a few minutes, he glances up at the screen-- the mother and… grandmother? are fighting about something-- in time to see… “Is that _Sam_?”

“No, that’s Dean.”

“No, really. Sam Winchester. John’s youngest.”

Rufus is silent for a long time, until the commercial break. “You really expect me to believe that _John’s_ kid was able to get away long enough to land a starring role on a soap opera for teenage girls?” He shakes his head. “John Winchester couldn’t let go of those kids long enough for you or Ellen to raise ‘em, no way one could run away to California without him dragging ‘em back.”

“Hell if I know!” Bobby reaches over to the phone on the bedside table. Dialing Dean’s number, he waits for it to ring, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder. “If this is for teenage girls, why are we watching it?”

“ _We’re_ not watching anything. I’m watching it because my daughter likes it and it gives us something to talk about. Why you’re not marching your sorry ass to the strip club up the road, I don’t know.”

“Just admit it’s a guilty pleasure.”

“Sure, as soon as you admit that beneath the dust jacket for your novel, you’re reading Tori Spelling’s biography.”

Bobby flushes red, hanging up the phone when it stops ringing.

**Author's Note:**

> More cracky goodness can be found at [Becomes My Bride](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13350477), which is Wayward and Human!Impala centric.  
> Or, more vaguely canon verse, there's [Swimming in a Fishbowl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12663276) or [Blue Moon Rising](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11372664).


End file.
